


Empty Night

by GlimmeringB52



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-30
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-10 14:39:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1160880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GlimmeringB52/pseuds/GlimmeringB52
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peggy Carpenter, Wizard, suddenly finds herself in a strange new world with no tolerance for magic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

I heard footsteps behind me as I turned down my blow torch. I would have ignored the click of high-heels on the bare cement floor, except that they seemed to be heading toward me. The staccato noises were loud and rhythmic, as if the wearer loved the important feeling she got from tapping out her approach. Lifting my visor, I checked out the seam I had welded and only turned around when the footsteps halted directly behind me.  
  
A slender woman with rich, dark hair and sparkling eyes behind a set of modern, square glasses held a clip board and stared at me. Her expression was expectant, as if we were carrying on a conversation and she was waiting for my reply.   
  
"Yes?" I asked.  
  
"Margaret Carpenter?" she asked.  
  
"Peggy," I said.  
  
She nodded. "I'm the gallery manager, Grace Qin. I'm just checking in with you and the other artists to make sure you have everything you need for tonight."  
  
"I think I'm OK," I said. "Just making a few last-minute adjustments. This one doesn't even need to be moved when I'm done."  
  
Grace nodded again and made a few notes on her clipboard, but otherwise gave no indication that she was satisfied.  
  
"Am I forgetting to do something?" I asked. "I mean, this is my first show, so I'm sorry if something slipped through the cracks. I get a little forgetful when I'm this jittery; and since this is my fist show my nerves are stretched pretty thin." I laughed a little too high and loud. I sound like a jackass when I'm nervous. Not intentionally, but we all have our nervous ticks.   
  
Grace took a deep breath and began slowly, "Well… I just have one concern about how we're setting up your sign." She took a slip of paper from her clipboard and handed it to me. "Could you read this over and make sure it's correct?"  
  
I took the paper. It read:

  
  
**_PEGGY CARPENTER – WIZARD  
  
Talismans and charms.  
  
Protection. Feng Shui. Organic pest control. _**  

**_Reasonable Rates. No potions, curses, or parties._ **

  
  
"Yes, that's right," I said, realizing Ms. Qin's true intentions. You'd be surprised how many people ask me if I'm serious.  
  
"Are you serious?" she asked. See?  
  
"Yes, Ma'am," I said. She winced. She was too young to be called Ma'am, but she ignored the insult.

"So, you make... what, exactly?" she asked, looking over my small items table. 

 My small items table was full of charms to ward off colds, bad dreams, telemarketers, dogs, cats, rodents, mice, allergies, ex-boyfriends, debt-collectors, mold, burglars, arthritis, and any other number of unpleasant things. Talismans for attractiveness, eloquence, persuasiveness, confidence, flexibility, endurance, charm, wit, creativity, etc. They didn't actually give someone more of something they didn't already have--just gave them a boost to what they could accomplish on a very good day.  

"Oh, you know, good luck charms, and peace of mind," I replied, knowing on a basic level that a long-winded explanation of what everything actually did wouldn't  be listened to. I could see it in the set of her eyes and the way she hugged the clip-board to her chest, and I heard it in the way she clicked her heels against the cement floor. She was bored and felt like wasting some time making someone else feel inferior.   

  
She glanced at the iron sculpture behind me, a model replica of St. Mary's Cathedral on Michigan Ave., complete with little stained-glass windows. The structure was far too large and heavy to transport all in one piece, so I had just finished welding the pieces back together.  
  
Gesturing to it, she asked, "So what does that do?" I frowned. Although I had some large sculptures set up for display tonight, none of them did anything and I wasn't expecting to make any money off of them. I  _was_ hoping to sell some talismans and charms that night because even skeptics will buy some pretty little bracelet for their girlfriend/boyfriend, and about one in every 10 will believe, superstitiously, that they actually work. The hall was being used by me and three other artists, all of whom were painters and first-timers.

  
"Nothing," I said. "It doesn't actually do anything yet. I'm not expecting anyone to buy it tonight, so it'll be donated to St. Mary's after the show." I didn't try very hard to keep the irritation out of my voice  
  
Ms. Qin blinked, seemed to consider saying something else, but cleared her throat instead. She glanced at her clipboard again and said, "Well I'm glad that's settled. Please be here at least an hour before the show begins, that's at 7:00 PM. Also, please remember that this show is formal attire."  
  
I nodded, noticing how she glanced at my flip-flops and cargo pants.   
  
She paused for a beat, waiting for me to say something, but when I remained silent she just turned and walked away, her heels clicking on the concrete floor.  
  
My name is Margaret Angelica Dresden Carpenter. Call me Peggy. I'm a wizard, and I operate out of my father's garage in the suburbs of Chicago. I'm in the phone book, and I'm well-known among suburban moms that want to hide the stench of weed from their husbands and kids. Something about my incense burners just work better than anything else they've tried.  

My customer base is small, and mostly accumulated by word-of-mouth and curious skeptics. I may not be the only openly practicing wizard in Chicago, but you'd think we were a bunch of tea party activists for all the credit people give practitioners. Our numbers did not give us credibility in main stream society.  
  
About a decade ago, it really seemed like the supernatural community was going to finally be acknowledged by the human race at large. An entire race of Vampires had been wiped off the planet, the counts of unexplained deaths were skyrocketing, and practitioners had never been so well-connected and organized. My own sister, Molly, and "Uncle Harry" had been deeply involved in some pretty serious and dangerous magical warfare. They even made the news a few times. I was about eight at the time, so I don't know a lot about it. They never talk about it either, so I'll be in the dark until Harry and Molly's journals get passed down to me, I guess.  
  
Anyway, things seemed to clear up after I turned thirteen. My father stopped worrying so much, my mother relaxed and started pestering Molly for grandchildren, and I started moving things across the room just by wishing it. It was just my luck that as soon as I started learning about magic, most of humanity started trying to forget about it.

People wanted to forget a world they couldn't explain and embrace the technology and science that would save the world. They wanted to focus on the non-magical calamities that plagued them: like the energy crisis, the debt crisis, the food crisis, the population crisis, the housing crisis, the unemployment crisis, and the climate crisis. It seemed like just about everything that could go wrong with civilization was snowballing into one huge side-show of bad news, and a good scape-goat seemed to be hippies and religious extremists.  
  
In any case, humanity at large was once again embracing science and technology like it was the second coming of Christ, except with probably more fanfare and worldwide acceptance. This meant that practitioners like myself were whispered about in the back of PTA meetings, but certainly not given small business loans.   
  
I always had my basic craftsmanship skills to fall back on. I worked with my foster father, Michael Carpenter, in (surprise, surprise) carpentry. Although I couldn't sell cabinets and dinettes that were scuff-proof, drip-proof, and guaranteed not to scratch your hardwood floors for slightly more money, I could still sell plain-old cabinets and dinettes that just seemed to last longer and look nicer than anyone else's. It doesn't pay nearly as well, I can't afford to move out of my parents' house, and I might go insane in a few years from boredom, but at least I don't have to worry about demons eating my face off. That's me. Always looking on the bright side of life.  
  
I checked my St. Mary's model one more time, turned off my welding torch, and packed my gear into the rolling suitcase I had brought with me. It was just after one and I had time to go home, eat, walk my dog, and change before I had to drive back into the city for 7:00 PM. It was about an hour drive back home-- which should tell you how bad traffic can get in a city of four-million people. I would have ridden my bike the four miles from the house to the gallery, but the gear I had to haul with me necessitated using my father's old and very battered pickup. 

A beeping from my pocket distracted me as I walked to my old-as-sin car, and I accidentally wheeled my bag right off the curb and into a deep puddle while trying to dig my phone out of the velcro'd pockets of my cargo pants. Great.  
  
"Hello?" I answered, hearing only static. "Hello?" I asked again, hoping the phone wouldn't give out on me. It would be number three this month.   
  
"Peg!" It was Molly. ".... are you?"  
  
"I'm fine!" I shouted into the receiver. "What's up?"  
  
"Did the setup go ....?" she asked, concerned.  
  
"It went fine," I said. "It's just waiting now."  
  
There was more static, punctuated by blips of Molly's voice. If I wanted to find out why Molly called before the phone gave out on me, I would have to hurry things up.   
  
"...you... Harry today?" I heard Molly ask.  
  
"What?" I asked, "What about Harry? Was I supposed to see him? No one told me." Heck, I hadn't seen "Uncle Harry" for well over a year. I use the air quotes because he's not really my uncle. He and my dad go way back, and he and Molly have always been close. I suppose he's part of the family, but he keeps his distance from everyone else. I have a brother named after him, and Michael always said I wouldn't be part of the family if it weren't for Uncle Harry. Hence, the Dresden in my name.   
  
I unlocked my trunk and tried lifting my bag over the lip of the bumper one-handed.  
  
"He may have mentioned something to me," she replied, coming in crystal clear, but so loud I had to yank the phone away from my ear.   
  
"Well that doesn't do me much good," I said. "Would it kill you to give me a straight answer this time? I don't really have the – ah shit," the bag slipped and landed on my foot, "—Mols, this isn't really a good time."  
  
"Are you still at the studio?" she asked. Realizing that my older sister and magical mentor was at her most difficult to deal with, I gave in.  
  
"No, I'm just leaving," I said, sighing, "It's a formal show, and I have to stop by home to change."  
  
I only heard silence on the other end. Molly was silent for so long that I had to check my phone to make sure it hadn't accidentally shorted it out. Eventually, she said, "Drive carefully, Peg. ...a car ... around six..." but she was drowned out by static before the phone powered down. 

  
You may think that was a rather cryptic and odd conversation, but it was honestly pretty normal for Molly, who insisted on using the most modern pieces of technology she could get away with, no matter how exasperating it made my life. Even though she spent years as my mentor, helping me train and develop my magical ability, there was very little else to our relationship. She was a closed book, and asking her anything that wasn't strictly related to magic theory or practice either resulted in silence or some kind of argument that distracted me from my original question.  
  
So I resigned myself to figuring out the rest of the phone conversation later, succeeded in getting my bag in the trunk with two hands, and drove home. The air was heavy with moisture from a recent thunderstorm, and the clouds blocking out the sunlight threatened the streets with another. The heat and humidity were fairly oppressive, but in late June it was to be expected. For the thousandth time, I wished that I was able to drive a newer car, with real working air conditioning.  
  
Magic and technology don't exactly mix well. It's less like oil and vinegar and more like bear traps and soft, fleshy legs. When a wizard is around technology, Murphy's Law stops being a superstitious joke. Anything that can go wrong with a piece of technology usually will. It has to do with some kind of magical interference that wizards give off. There are some exceptions. If the technology is old enough, the magical interference has less of an effect, which is why my battered cell phone and ancient car could survive most interactions with me--although the cell phone was pushing it. The more powerful the wizard, the stronger the magical interference If I'm even in a room with a computer too long, then the poor machine is likely to blow out a battery, crash its hard drive, overheat its processor-one time a computer even caught fire. No joke.   
  
I got home in a little under an hour because I will sometimes drive like a maniac when I don't want to be driving. I parked my car on the street and walked past the white picket fence. Michael's truck, Charity's ancient minivan, and Little Harry's car were all missing. No one was home. Mouse, my giant guardian dog, greeted me at the door, his nails clicking on the glass of the screen door and his tail wagging happily. Don't let the name fool you, Mouse is a beast. A love-able, cuddly, slobbery, gentle giant that used to give me pony rides when I was little. And despite sharing a mid-sized colonial in the suburbs of Chicago with four other humans, Mouse fit right in.  
  
I showered, dressed in a dark blue dress with braided straps and a hem that literally touched the floor, and put on some white peep-toe heels that brought me to six-foot-two. I did the girly thing and made myself gorgeous, or as close as I could get. Enough makeup, applied in such a way that one might be mistaken as a lady of nightly pleasures can make even an average-looking girl like myself desirable when standing next to Honey Boo-Boo. I'm not saying I looked like a hooker, but "natural makeup" doesn't quite cut it when you're trying to sell a $400 welcome mat that wards off "Evil Spirits" (see: door-to-door salesmen and burglars). People think I'm ill when I don't wear any at all.  
  
I used grey and pink shadow and dark eyeliner to make my dark eyes seem bigger. Normally, they're kinda squinty; puffy from lack of sleep and too much coffee. Rouge to my cheeks to add a deceptively healthy glow to my skin. I'm not super pale or anything, but I don't spend nearly enough time as I'd like out in the sun. I put up my dark hair in a simple clip, leaving two wavy tendrils to fall and frame my face. I liked this kind of style because it's casually elegant and has the added bonus of making my unremarkably round face seem a little longer, that it might not be overwhelmed by my somewhat-too-long nose and prominent chin. Did I just describe Taylor Swift? Maybe her slightly less attractive cousin she takes out so she can have someone to occupy the Wing Man. And that's with $200 of makeup at my full disposal.  
  
And on top of the lovely cake that is my T&A--cuz, hey, my face may be a 6 on a good day, but my body is a solid 8 without even trying much-- I added my magical bling. The stuff I don't sell. It's mostly there for self-defense because I never know when Molly is going to make an attempt on my life: a ring that stores a little kinetic energy every time I move my arm to deliver a hulk-punch upon release; one bracelet that absorbs light, acting as some effective camouflage, but also sending out a subtle psychic "look away"; another bracelet that serves as a shield bracelet; and a necklace that, when thrown, detonates like a flash-bang grenade.   
  
This is what I do. I make magical toys (and tools, and weapons, and trinkets).  
  
In fact, I had been training with Warden Luccio for the past three years in order to take over the crafting of the Warden's swords. Wardens are the police force of the White Council, and the White Council is basically the largely recognized government of the magical community. Luccio had suffered an unexpected body switch that severely impacted her ability to craft magical weapons, and when my talent was discovered, I began receiving private tutoring from Luccio in short order. I would start crafting the swords in a matter of weeks, which would provide me with steady, if limited, income.  
  
At five thirty, a limousine pulled up in front of the house. I recalled the words "car" and "six" from the phone conversation and guessed that Molly was telling me about a pickup. Mouse seemed relaxed, so I didn't worry. As a temple dog, Mouse has some magical abilities of his own. One of those abilities is a preternatural sense of danger, and I had relied on his keen senses nearly my whole life.  
  
I grabbed a clutch and checked my makeup in the mirror, gave Mouse a pat goodbye, and locked the front door behind me as I left. A slender, attractive man exited the car and walked around back to open the passenger door. He had shoulder-length hair--fine and platinum-blonde--, bright green eyes, and lean muscles that were clearly visible under a light-weight, green silk shirt. He smiled at me as I got in the car. I smelled ozone, and his tanned face was the last thing I saw as the world went black.  
  
O.o  
  
I woke up to sirens screaming. Pain shot through my skull with every wail. I was crawling forward on my hands and knees in a dimly-lit, grey room. I couldn't think. My arms, shaky and weak, gave out, and I curled in on myself and tried to breathe through the pain.

  
I have only been hung over once in my short life and I hope I never repeat the experience. My first boyfriend, Adam Polonsky, fed me Screwdrivers until I couldn't feel my lips or stand up straight. It was a night of valuable lessons because not only did I learn that I have no shame when I am drunk; I also learned that stupid boys will take advantage of that, and that buying Plan B in the morning while hung over is even more humiliating than the night that got you there.  
  
That being said, I woke up and remembered Adam Polonsky as a fond memory of how pain used to feel.  
  
Lights flickered, and the air around me hummed. I tried to open my eyes, but everything in sight swam and the lights burned. What had happened? Where was I? Empty Night, could I even remember my name?  
  
I heard running footsteps. I raised my left arm and noticed that my bracelet was gone. My ring was gone, too. I looked down to find that my lovely blue summer dress was shredded at the knee and torn up the left side. My heels were gone, and my right ankle felt sprained. And I finally remembered that my name was Peggy Carpenter.  
  
I heard voices and two men came into view, ducking under a large Plexiglas pipe filled with rushing fluid. They were holding toy guns. Were they guns? They looked like those toy space guns that shoot laser beams. I always wanted to play laser tag.   
  
They were speaking to each other, but I couldn't wrap my brain around what they were saying. One of them pointed the gun at me and I reacted without thinking. I held out my left hand and croaked, "Hexus," sending a blast of unfocused Will in their direction because it was no fair that they should invite me to play laser tag but not give me a laser gun too. The little lights on the gun winked out, and the world went black again.  
  
For a second, I thought I was unconscious again, but the pain very angrily reminded me that I did not have that much good luck. I tried to get up, but one of the men tackled me to the ground. He twisted my arm around my back and pressed me into the ground. I screamed.  
  
"Don't move. Don't struggle. You are aboard a Starfleet vessel without clearance or identification. Who are you?" the man on top of me asked. I was hopelessly confused. My head was still swimming, and I was starting to think that this may not be a friendly, if somewhat unfair, game of laser tag.  
  
"Wha?" I asked.  
  
"Identify yourself," the man said. He twisted my arm a little tighter.  
  
"Ahh! Peggy Carpenter!" I screamed, starting to get angry. "Get off me!"  
  
"Captain," the other man said. "My comm unit is not functional. Communication with the rest of the ship has been terminated. Backup is most likely on its way, but I recommend that we subdue the intruder before any more damage to the ship is inflicted."  
  
"Like hell!" I shrieked, and my head cleared enough for me to realize that I might actually be in some deep trouble.  
  
Right about then, I really wished I had more than a passing interest in the self-defense classes Karryn Murphy had offered to give me. Because while I could defend myself against a would-be rapist, and goodness knows I know what I'm doing when I have my Force Ring and Notice-Me-Not Bracelet, I was really out of my depth if I was already pinned to the ground and missing my magical tools. I couldn't buck this guy off of me, and limited abilities to call up the kind of Will I would need for on-the-fly magic. It was time to improvise.  
  
I went limp and focused all my energy on gathering my will.  
  
I'm not particularly skilled at evocation, a type of magic that involved the quick summoning and focused release of Will that resulted in the more spectacular type of magic--fire and that sort of thing. Molly isn't either, so we never spent that much time on it. When she called in Uncle Harry to cover the basics with me, and he found out how abysmal I was at any kind of violent magic, he showed me how to use evocation in smaller ways. I could whip something up in emergencies, but it takes a lot of effort and a few seconds--which you don't normally have in the middle of a fight.  
  
I focused on where the man's skin was touching my bare wrist and called forth heat. There seemed to be an abundant source of heat around me, though the air was not hot, and I drew greedily from it. I broke out in a sweat, my breathing became labored, my head felt like it was going to split open and a velociraptor was going to come crawling out.  
  
The man howled and drew his hand back. Though he still had a knee planted in my lower back, he had let go of my twisted arm. I rolled, throwing him off balance. In complete darkness, I had no idea where to go, what direction I was facing and--in my current state of distress-- I wasn't entirely confident that I was upright.  
  
I jumped to my feet and nearly fell over due to a wave of dizziness. The man I had thrown off of me grabbed hold of my ankle and I felt another hand on my neck.  
  
There was a violent burst of energy that tore through my mind. And the world went black again.  
  
O.o  
  
Life was no less painful the second time I woke from unconsciousness. If I ever suffered under the delusion that a little shut-eye might ease the pounding in my head, I was rudely reminded that my cosmic d20 was rolling ones.  
  
"Empty Night," I cursed quietly. I tried to bring a hand to my head, but it only got an inch or so off the bed before the restraints around my wrists stopped it. I jerked my other wrist and my ankles. All restrained tightly. "Hell’s Bells," I added for good measure.  
  
I kept my eyes closed, not daring to test their sensitivity to the light I knew was shining in my face. I heard the soft rustling of cloth that marked someone's approach to the bed. Two seconds later, a high-pitched whirring sound accompanied the person. It was a soft sound, but it drilled into my temples.  
  
"So yer awake are ya?" a voice said, belonging to the person next to me. The voice was male, with a southern accent.  
  
"I'm gonna throw up," I gasped.  
  
"Oh, shit," he said, sounding put-upon. He scrambled around, casting metal clangs and shuffled miscellaneous around until I felt a gentle hand turn my head to my right and cold metal touched my cheek. Like a trigger, my stomach convulsed and I retched into the receptacle. It didn't feel like a lot came up, and I wondered when I had eaten last.  
  
When I stopped heaving, the southern man – he drawled too much to be Texan, so maybe Georgian? – pulled the cold, metal bowl away and I felt my hair fall back to my shoulders. He left, presumably to dispose of whatever had evacuated my stomach. I collapsed into the upraised back of the bed, exhausted. 

 

Now that I could think, I realized that there were a few things that were seriously wrong with my situation. I had lost all of my magical tools, I could assume that several hours had passed since I left my house for the show, and I didn't know where I was or how I got there. Either I was unconscious for the entire time, or someone had done a very sloppy job at wiping my memory. I couldn't decide option would be preferable.

  
There was a chirping sound, and Georgia said, "Captain, the patient is awake." That would be me. Captain was the one I had burned. I must have been on a military base. It would explain the rankings.   
  
"I'm coming down," was the terse reply, followed by another chirp. Georgia retuned to my side and the whirring resumed.  
  
"Where am I?" I asked Georgia, the words tore at my throat and my mouth felt like sand paper.  
  
"I'll let the Captain answer all yer questions," Georgia said. "In the meantime, you can answer mine. How are ya feelin'?"  
  
"Pretty. Oh so pretty," I grouched. My voice sounded strange in my own ears. Raspy and whispery, as if I hadn't spoken in a long time.  
  
"I'm a doctor," he growled angrily. "If you would open your eyes, you could see that."  
  
"Can't," I said. "I'm afraid that if I do they'll boil out of my skull." It was only a slight hyperbole. The whirring got louder as whatever was making the noise got closer to my head. I winced. It stopped.  
  
"Let me guess. You got a whopper of a migraine, am I right?" Georgia drawled. I nodded.  
  
"All right, hold still," he said, and pressed something against my neck. Not expecting whatever it was he was trying to do, I flinched violently and screamed. I tried to raise my arms to defend myself, but only succeeded in giving myself rope burns on my wrists. Georgia swore and pushed a hand against my chest, pinning me to the bed. The pressure against my neck returned, I heard a hiss, my neck stung, there was a loud hiss-POP and the light in my face went out.  
  
"Son of a--I said hold still!" Georgia shouted.  
  
"What did you give me?" I screamed back. I could already feel the effects. I was slightly dizzy, but my head seemed to be clearing and the pain lessened. My heart pounded, but that was likely because I was scared about half to death. I slowly opened my eyes a fraction, squinting and blinking rapidly.  
  
"Calm down, it was just a hypo injection," he said slowly, "to help with the headache." I didn't respond because I didn't know what a hypo was. In a few seconds, I was able to open my eyes all the way. The world was a little blurry, but it came into focus slowly. I looked around.  
  
I was reclining in something that was similar to a hospital bed in a large room shaped like a curved trapezoid. Other beds, similar to the one I was strapped to, were on either side of me. In front of me, about ten feet away, I could see some kind of circular supplies station, attended by a woman in a cornflower blue uniform. Georgia was standing on my left side—also in a blue uniform—reaching into the front pocket of his scrubs and pulling out a device. He had dark hair and dark eyes, a strong, square jaw and a cynical set to his thin lips. His skin was pale, but weathered enough to tell that he spent most of his life enjoying the sunshine. He must have been thirty, thirty-five. He had deep frown lines that would remain etched between his eyebrows even when he relaxed, but the gentleness with which he had held my hair as I threw up belied his aggressive appearance. He met my eyes for a brief instant and looked down at the device in his hands. He frowned.  
  
"What the…" he asked. He toggled a little switch a few times and shook the thing. He banged it with the heel of his hand. It wasn't working. I had to work at keeping the smirk off of my face. That's what you get when you startle the bejeezus out of a wizard. He looked behind me at the burned-out lamp and swore, then turned on his heel in the direction of the supply station.  
  
While I was left alone, for the most part, I examined the bindings on my wrists. They were of some kind of strong fabric—nylon blend, maybe? They looped around my wrist and bolted to the railings on either side of the bed. But—BINGO—they were tightened by an electronic device that had malfunctioned when I was startled. I twisted my wrists back and forth, trying to loosen the bindings enough that I could slip my hands out quickly if I needed to. I wiggled my feet around. It wasn't like I could escape with Georgia right there and The Captain on his way, but I would have the element of surprise if I needed it.  
  
Georgia returned, accompanied by another man in a gold and black uniform and a third man in a blue and black uniform. Goldie had wavy brown-blond hair, bright blue eyes, and muscles that were clearly visible under his shirt and pants. I could tell he was the Captain by the way he carried himself. Shoulders back, a relaxed and confident swing to his arms. His full, pouty lips and firm jaw were framed by a short beard that added a distinguished quality to his boyish good looks. I suspect he would look much younger if he shaved. He was a man used to giving orders and taking control, even if he had no clue what was going on.  
  
Blue had jet black hair cut in a severe style, and eyebrows that gradually of crawled up his forehead. He had soft brown eyes, high cheekbones, and a graceful jawline; but his features were devoid of emotion, almost serene. I'm usually pretty good at reading people, but this guy was a blank slate. His clean-shaven face was unreadable, wiped clean of any of the small telling twitches that at least indicate a person's frame of mind. No tension in the brow or jaw, no creases around the eyes, no quirk to the lips, no tilt to the head. The only animated feature on his face was his eyes, which flicked around the room quickly, assessed Georgia, and observed me where I lay. He met my eyes, but I broke the contact when I felt the beginning tingles of a soul gaze.

  
Georgia, Goldie, and Blue approached my bed; Georgia and Goldie on my left, and Blue on my right. As I caught my first glimpse of Blue's profile, I noticed that he had—I kid you not— _pointed_ ears. I tried not to look surprised because, obviously, these other guys weren't. Goldie cleared his throat, and I returned my attention to him.  
  
"Miss Carpenter. My name is James Tiberius Kirk. I'm the Captain of this starship, the USS Enterprise. With me are," he gestured to Blue, "First Officer and Chief Science Officer Spock, and," gesturing to Georgia, "Chief Medical Officer, Doctor Leonard McCoy. Do you know why you are restrained?"  
  
"I believe I was defending myself, though my recollection of events is somewhat hazy," I hedged. The man did just say star ship, which was either code for something or… crazy.  
  
"That's perfectly understandable," Kirk said agreeably. "You were in pretty rough shape when we found you in the engine room. I would probably have reacted the same way." He paused. "But that isn't why we've restrained you." I remained silent. It would prompt Kirk to elaborate since he hadn't followed up with a direct question.  
  
"The reason you are restrained, Miss Carpenter, is because you were not aboard this vessel three hours ago, but since we have not seen a single ship in three weeks there is no possible way for you to have boarded. You somehow gave me second-degree burns and caused a massive engine failure that nearly resulted in the death of almost four hundred people. Finally, you are not recognized as a citizen of the United Federation of Planets or Earth. There is no record of an identity that matches your DNA," Kirk said. His voice remained calm and modulated, but deepened as he moved his face close to mine. "So tell me, Miss Carpenter. Who are you, and where do you come from?"  
  
It was all very dramatic. I tried and failed to resist the urge to cut the tension.  
  
"Well you see, Mr. Kirk, when a man and a woman love each other very much, there comes a time in their relationship where they want to express that—"

Kirk reared back and shouted, "I don't think you understand exactly how much trouble you're in. You need to start telling the truth, or there will be consequences."  
  
"You can't handle the truth!" I shot back, trying to sit up, but only managing a weak flop of my shoulders. Doctor McCoy snorted, earning a death glare from the Captain. Sure, I was being a little difficult, but I wasn't wrong. People don't react well to their worldviews being shattered. And I didn't want to end up sedated and wrapped in a strait jacket because I was among some magical unfriendlies. It was best to let them come to their own conclusions about what happened and go with that.  
  
"McCoy, Spock, with me," he clipped, glancing at each in turn and walking away a few paces. McCoy and Spock followed. They huddled together and looked like they were going to have a hushed conversation about me out of earshot, so I closed my eyes and concentrated on listening. Uncle Harry had taught me this trick in the third and last magic lesson we ever had--when he showed me how to make a Force Ring. He said that the most important information I would ever learn was probably going to be kept from me, so I'd best learn how to go about finding it for myself. You'd be surprised at what you can hear with a little practice.  
  
"Seriously, Bones?" Kirk complained, his tone changing to a casual, informal cadence.   
  
"Sorry, Jim, but it's not every day someone quotes _A Few Good Men_ ," McCoy replied, not at all apologetic.  
  
"Whatever. What did you find out?" Kirk asked.  
  
"She's human," McCoy said.  
  
"And do you know this because of her knowledge of 20th century pop culture?" Kirk asked, frustrated.  
  
"Dammit, Jim! I'm a Doctor, not an anthropologist!" McCoy griped. "Her readings are all human, what little I could get through all of my equipment going haywire. I'm not even sure we can trust what I got.  Twenty-three year-old female, about 1.8 meters, Hispanic and mixed decent, broke some bones when she was probably eight or so." 

A pause.

"Anything else?" Kirk asked impatiently. 

"That's all I got, Jim. My tricorder shorted out before I could get anything else."  
  
"And what were you able to come up with, Spock?" Kirk asked.  
  
"My efforts have yielded equally unenlightening results," Spock said. He had a soft, tenor voice and spoke with clipped and unaccented vowels. "I have found no traces of energizing beams, no temporal anomalies, and no evidence of an unknown transport ship. If I didn't know better, I'd say that Miss Carpenter has been aboard the ship since we last docked at  _Lya Station Alpha_."

"But that's impossible because the ship detected an intruder only an hour ago," Kirk said speculatively.  
  
"I would not say she materialized, Captain, as there is no physical evidence of such an event occurring. It would be more accurate to say that one moment she was not here, and then the next moment she was," Spock countered.  
  
"Sorry, Spock, but I don't see how that explanation is more accurate," Kirk said.  
  
"While we still do not have a suitable explanation of events, I would say that my statement is all we are able to conclude with our knowledge of what may or may not have happened," Spock countered.  
  
"Fine. What were you able to pull from security?" Kirk asked.  
  
"The security recordings malfunctioned as soon as the ship detected an intruder. There is no recorded evidence of Miss Carpenter's arrival on this ship," Spock said calmly. I chanced a quick peek. Kirk seemed to be growing more frustrated and grim by the second, and McCoy was equally tense. Spock looked like he was contemplating what he would have for lunch. I shut my eyes again before they noticed I was eavesdropping. "However there are instances across the ship of other surveillance equipment malfunctioning. It is unclear at this time whether these malfunctions are in any way related to Miss Carpenter."  
  
"Okay, keep me posted, Spock. But, it looks like our only option right now is to get the story out of our guest here," Kirk concluded. And now I knew this man had no experience whatsoever with anything magical because you don't bandy the word 'Guest' around unless you really mean it.   
  
"I would advise extreme caution, Captain," Spock said. "While Miss Carpenter may be human, the forces that manipulated this situation may be dangerous and beyond our current understanding."  
  
"Duly noted, Spock," Kirk said. "Bones, watch her vitals for any signs of lying while we question her. I'm sure she knows what's going on."  
  
"Would love to, Jim, but my tricorder isn't the only thing that isn't working. Just about everything shorted out when I tried to give her a hypo. The bed's monitors are all out of whack, and even the bed lamp blew out."  
  
"Son of a ..." Kirk trailed off with a sigh. "Well, I guess we'll have to rely on your talents, Spock. Would you be able to tell if she were lying?" Kirk asked.  
  
"Affirmative," said Spock, "although I would require her consent to perform a mind-meld."  
  
"Good," Kirk said. "Let's go."  
  
I opened my eyes and saw the three men approaching me again, this time Spock approached on the left, while Kirk and McCoy stopped at the foot of my bed. Kirk crossed his arms and looked at me seriously.  
  
"Miss Carpenter, I'm going to ask you a few questions, and I'd like you to answer them truthfully. Mr. Spock will be assisting me and will tell me if you are lying," Kirk informed me. I wasn't sure how the pointy-eared stranger was going to pull this off, unless he was a practitioner with some talent in his own right. Could he be a changeling? It would account for his strange appearance, as the children of fey and humans often had distinguishing characteristics. I looked doubtfully up at him and settled on the space right between his strangely-angled eyebrows.  
  
"Miss Carpenter, do you give your consent to a mind-meld?" Spock asked. 

"What's that?" I asked, although I was pretty sure.  

"A mind-meld is a telepathic link, forged by a Vulcan, which joins two or more minds together. The purpose of which is to facilitate the open and uninhibited sharing of information, impressions, thought, and emotions." Spock's answer sounded like it came from a text book, and I had a suspicion it actually had. "Captain Kirk wishes me to form a shallow link for the sole purpose of detecting discrepancies between your thoughts and your words. It is imperative that we assess the danger you—or the forces that brought you here—pose to our ship and crew. I ask that you allow me to perform a mind-meld, so that I may confirm the truthfulness of your statements to Captain Kirk."

It was exactly what I thought it was, but I didn't seem to have much of a choice, so I nodded. Besides, I could hold my own.

"Please do not be alarmed," he said, as if he were actually wary of an emotional outburst, "This will not hurt." He placed his right hand on the left side of my face, carefully aligning his fingers to three points: his thumb on my chin, his forefinger just under my eye, and his remaining fingers resting against my temple. I immediately felt a jolt run through my body, ending with a tingling in my fingertips, somewhat similar to the jolt I would get if I shook hands with another powerful wizard. My eyes widened in surprise and then closed as if on their own accord. I felt weightless, and warm, and relaxed. For a few seconds I forgot who and where I was, but a gentle pressure in the back of my mind roused me from my momentary state of bliss.

He was in my mind. I could feel his presence, but he made no effort to dig into my memories or thoughts.  
  
It was a strange feeling. Like when a guest shows up and knocks on the side door that opens into a room you didn't clean because you never intended them to see it; like when a customer enters the shop from the back door marked 'Employees Only'. 

All practitioners powerful enough to earn the title of Wizard have some skill in mind magic, though the White Council has blanketed all mind magic as Black Magic. Many Wizards know how to defend themselves against psychic attacks (from a weak and unskilled wizard), and very few (my mentor Molly among them) has skill for much else. Factors determining a Wizard’s strength in mind magic are much the same as every other skill: natural ability, belief in its use, and how much the Wizard develops the skill.  

While I may be abysmal at evocation--I have little natural talent for it, and I'm not really a violet person, nor do I believe it is in me to use force for anything but self-defense--Molly made sure that I developed what little skill I had to give myself a better chance of survival. Not that I go around battling for my life every day (well, beyond the hour or so that Molly is trying to kill me. She hasn't succeeded yet, but I don't think she's really trying very hard). 

I'm much better at telepathy than evocation, but still not as good as enchanting magical tools. Molly dances circles around my brain. She's empathic as well, and can sense the emotions of people in the room. She can enter my mind and read my thoughts without me realizing it. I'm an elephant by comparison.... but other wizards are dinosaurs compared to me.  
  
The way I saw it, I had a couple of options available to me. I could attack Spock's mental presence and push him from my mind, but since he had made no attempts to go where he wasn't wanted I was hesitant to immediately go on the offensive. I could go the opposite route and remain quiet within my own head, leading him to believe I was just another human. Or I could take some middle ground and politely ask him to back off. If he had some skill in mind magic, I might be safer in revealing myself to these people than I had first guessed--despite their blatant ignorance of the laws of hospitality.  
  
 _I'd like to set some ground rules while you're here,_  I thought.  
  
I didn't have to wait long for a response. It was hesitant and came with a ripple of surprise.  
  
 _Fascinating. You clearly possess telepathic abilities, yet you are human. To my knowledge, humans are largely believed to be a psi-null species. How is this possible?_ Spock asked.  
  
 _Just lucky, I guess,_ I thought, hoping to deflect his questions. While he didn't seem to have aggressive motives, I couldn't trust him yet, or the two other men intent on questioning me. _Ground rules: one, you're not going where you're not wanted. Believe me, I can keep you out. Two, this mind-meld is over when I say it's over. Three: we soul gaze before the questioning starts because I need to know if I can trust you before I let you stay in here one second longer._  
  
I held my breath. Molly would almost certainly have had this stranger clawing at his eyes in agony for daring to invade her mind, even in the shallowest of contact. But I wasn't Molly, who tended to have a vicious streak that always made me a bit uncomfortable. I wanted to trust this man, strange as he may be, but I needed more to go on. 

_Please define a soul gaze,_ Spock thought. 

_A soul gaze is a phenomenon that occurs when a person such as myself meets eyes with another person. Both parties gain insight into the nature of the other person and have intimate knowledge of that person's trustworthiness, motives, values, desires, fears, sometimes even secrets. The experience is subjective and unique to each individual._

Spock remained quiet, possibly considering his options. I continued, _I'm not going to lie; it's pretty intimate, although usually both parties benefit from the knowledge in the end._

_I can find no fault with your logic,_  Spock said. _Please, proceed._

I steeled my resolve, opened my eyes, and turned my face to meet his gaze. His eyes were dark. A warm chocolate brown that seemed at odds with his emotionless face. It took a second (soul gazes usually do), but I felt the gaze take hold and was powerless to stop it.  
  
Everyone experiences a soul gaze differently. Harry once told me that his gazes played out as scenes in a movie, with representations of people and places projected so clearly in his mind they were almost real. Molly described her soul gaze experience as trending toward mainly emotional impressions with occasional accompanying images.  
  
I've only ever soul-gazed one other person, so I don't really have much experience. The first time was like a dream. I saw strange things and immediately knew their meaning. Nothing was vague to me, although if I described it to another person, it would probably seem hopelessly cryptic.   
  
When I looked into Spock's eyes, I saw a man who was not fully human. He was a creature of two worlds, belonging to neither. He was a scholar, a man of intellect, and ultimately a pacifist, but would fight with military precision and the ferocity of a warrior to protect those he cared for. Behind his emotionless face he hid a river of passion that ran deep... so deep. He hid the pain of a loss so great it took his breath away in the dead of night when he was alone and left him confused and angry. He also hid a joy so fierce it nearly choked him every time he brought his crew and captain back from a mission safely. Everything he did was in the name of discovery, of exploration, of knowledge, of understanding the universe. He had killed once before, and it scared him. Scared him so much that he tried ever harder to control that great river of emotion so that he could catch that cold rage masquerading as logic before it got that far again. Spock's mind was a cold and beautiful place; a glacier: huge and unstoppable, with a powerful control over the wilder underbelly of his nature.

He thought I was a curious anomaly. He was interested, eager even, to find out where I had come from, solve the puzzle that I presented, determine the logic behind a series of seemingly illogical events. He would not hesitate to take me out the moment I presented an insurmountable danger to his ship and captain.

The gaze ended and I was once again looking at Spock's warm, brown eyes. Blinking the hazy images away, I felt tears track down my cheeks. I took a deep breath and released it slowly, breaking eye-contact and looking over to Captain Kirk and Doctor McCoy.  
  
"We're ready," I said.


	2. Chapter 2

Captain Kirk looked suspicious, his head tilted to one side and his lips thinned. His eyes darted between me and Spock until Spock said, in a perfectly calm voice--like he hadn't just seen my soul laid bare, "All is well, Captain. You may proceed." He could have been commenting on the weather. What nice meteor  showers we're having today.   
  
"Alright," Kirk said. "Let's start with basics. What is your name?"  
  
"My name is Margaret Carpenter. My friends call me Peggy," I replied. Kirk looked at Spock, who must have indicated in some way that I was telling the truth because Kirk looked satisfied.  
  
"Please lie to me, Peggy. Something everyone here would be able to recognize as a lie," Kirk said.  
  
"Um... okay. Dr. McCoy is a horse," I said, the right side of my face pulling into a silly grin. Honestly, they didn't need Spock for this. I'm a terrible liar. I have more ticks than a Cuckoo clock.  
  
"And now a lie that no one here would know better about, please," Kirk said. I cast about for the space of three heart-beats, trying to think of something. I didn't want to inadvertently give away too much personal information, but I did want to test out the subtleties of Spock's ability to tell if I was lying. Seconds ticked by and Kirk re-adjusted his crossed arms.  
  
"I, uh, played guitar?" I said, wincing. "for Paul McCartney."  
  
Kirk opened his mouth, but Spock unexpectedly preempted whatever the Captain was going to say with, "I detect that the first part of that statement was a lie, but that there was some truth to the second part of the statement." Thus, proving that Spock's abilities were much more nuanced than I had first guessed.   
  
This was, apparently, not what either Dr. McCoy or Captain Kirk expected to hear because Dr. McCoy whapped Kirk on the shoulder and eyed me warily. It was a cross between is-this-person-crazy? and am-I-crazy?  
  
Looking confused, Kirk asked, "Who?"  
  
I giggled nervously. "You know... from the Beatles?" Now Kirk was also wearing the same peculiar expression as Dr. McCoy, except Kirk's was tinged with a healthy dose of this-sounds-like-a-dangerous-situation. Dr. McCoy's eyebrows were slowly drawing together in a fierce scowl, which changed his whole demeanor.   
  
"Ok, well I didn't really ever meet him, per se, I just gave him his coffee because he came into the Starbucks I was working in and I took his order, but because my friend Rebecca was too star-struck, I got his coffee too, and he didn't even really speak to me, except to say that he wanted extra foam, and then I was fired from my job anyway a week later because I kept breaking the coffee machines." Stars and stones, word vomit is the worst of my nervous tics. "You probably didn't need to know that."  
  
"Paul McCartney of the Beatles died in 2019," Dr. McCoy said.  
  
"Yeah, my dad was super bummed about it," I said. "This was a few years before that. I was only sixteen at the time."  
  
In the silence that followed, I found myself looking at the nylon strap that bound my right wrist to the bed. Spock's fingers still pressed against my temple, following my head as I turned my face aside. I could tell this little Q&A wasn't going too well, and we weren't even past the control questions. A little hysterical giggle burbled forth again.

 

Dots were connecting in my head that were forming a very strange and impossible picture. I didn't want to believe it; not because I have trouble believing in seemingly impossible things (you don't apprentice to one of the most notorious reformed warlocks in the White Council and not come out the other side without a few mental scars--not to mention, Chichen Itza, but that's another story), but because if it were true it would mean I was about to get very angry. And you wouldn't like me when I'm angry. 

"What's your birthday?" Kirk asked after a solid minute of silence.

"November 23, 2003," I said, unable to hide the quaver in my voice. Kirk ran a hand over his face and McCoy threw his hands in the air and stalked away from the bed.

_Please remain calm,_ Spock thought in my mind. He pulled my attention inward and showed me memories of a shadowed room, filled with the flickering light of a fire. The deep tones of a string instrument resonated through the air. It was basically the mental equivalent of slapping hands over my eyes and ears. I felt my eyes go out of focus and was immediately suffused with annoyance that more or less replaced the rising hysteria.

_Stars and stones, what is going on?_ I demanded.

_I sensed your rising emotional distress and concluded that the information you will learn shortly will contribute to it. I deemed it 75% likely that Dr. McCoy would resort to sedation to calm you if I did not take preemptive measures,_ Spock thought.

_What's going on?_ I pressed, resisting the calming effects of the mental room. _None of this makes any sense--_

_Miss Carpenter, please calm yourself --_

_I'm tied down, dressed in the rags of my favorite dress,--_

_The lights of sickbay are flickering in time with your emotional distress--_

_tired, sick, and I am just about done with strangers--_

_and I don't believe I need to tell you how--_

_demanding questions of me and flipping out--_

_disastrous a failure of medical equipment could be._

_like I've done something wrong when I answer them!  
_  
We were 'shouting' over each other, and I wasn't really listening to him until a jolt of tingling sensation tore through my brain and burned its way down my body, ending at my fingers and toes. It was disruptive enough that my thoughts actually scattered for a full five seconds. 

_Miss Carpenter, calm down or the other patients in sickbay will be at risk,_  Spock insisted. I shut up. I could feel myself breathing in short gasps.

_Focus on the fire. The light is flickering. Listen to the music. The sound is deep._

I tried to do as Spock said, guilt replacing anger as quickly as anger had replaced rising panic. I had forgotten I was in a medical facility, or hadn't realized, or hadn't cared. I'm a danger to most technology on a good day, but strong emotions amplify the sphere of magical interference. I haven't been to a hospital since I was thirteen. Not when my nieces and nephews were born, not when my father had a stroke. I couldn't risk accidentally shutting down someone's life support.

I focused my attention to the visual and auditory projections Spock was mentally sending my way. They were, thankfully, very similar to my usual meditative tricks: that of a forge and a rhythmic striking of a hammer to molten steel.

I had trained for three years with Warden Luccio to take over production of the Warden's swords. Much of that time was spent training myself to enter a trance-like state in which I could suppress the dangerous elements of emotion, so that only the fire and my Will would shape the blade. Emotions are powerful tools to use when casting a spell. Evocation works well when fueled by strong emotion; even many of my own talismans come out best when I am feeling some sort of emotion while crafting--love, protectiveness, jealousy, anger, sadness, fear. You can catch sunlight in a white cloth, but only when you are truly happy. Warden swords are different. Wardens use these swords to execute rogue Wizards, called Warlocks, and they need to be able to cut through defensive magic spells. These swords cast judgement. There can be no emotional interference.

It didn't take me long to come close to my sword-crafting, trance-like state once I put my mind to it (badumsha). Since I wasn't going to be hammering any steel in the next few minutes, keeping up the rhythm of my mantra, I would likely slip out of it pretty quickly, but at least I wasn't leaking magical interference all over the technology surrounding me. Since Spock was monitoring my 'emotional distress' he was aware of when I finished.

_Well done, Miss Carpenter,_ he thought _. I have never known a human to so effectively control an emotional response._

_What did you do to shock me?_ I asked.

_It is a common technique used by Vulcans among young children who are first learning to establish emotional contro_ l, _called_ irak-nahan svi-shaya, Spock thought.

I very nearly sent a barrage of questions and frustration at Spock, but considered for a brief moment that there might be a better way to go about getting answers.

_Thank you, Spock, for your assistance. It won't be necessary any longer,_ I said, and pushed him out.

Immediately, my vision returned to the real world and I heard a quiet gasp from Spock. I could faintly sense the pressure of his mind trying to gain re-entry, but he removed his fingers from my face when he was not successful. Captain Kirk and Dr. McCoy were once again at the foot of my bed, apparently finished with their little flip-out.

"Mr. Spock, we aren't finished," Kirk said.

"I apologize, Captain, but Miss Carpenter has limited my access to her thoughts," Spock said.

"Actually, we are finished," I countered, cutting off Kirk's alarmed exclamations. "For now," I added, when Kirk's look turned from concerned to outraged.

"And I'll tell you why," I continued. "I refuse to answer any more questions while tied to a bed like a living sacrifice. I'm half-naked, tired, hungry, thirsty, and missing several hours of time, if not more. I'll answer your questions, but I want to be fully clothed, sitting in a chair with a table between us, unrestrained, and I want a lawyer present."

"You're not really in a position to be making demands, Miss Carpenter," Kirk said dangerously.

"Am I under arrest?" I shot back.

"You are being detained for assault on a Starfleet officer and for stowing away on a Starfleet vessel," Kirk said.

"Then can I leave?" I asked, gambling that detention laws were still the same here as back home.

"What? No," Kirk snapped.

"You can't detain me against my will, Captain, so if I'm not allowed to leave, then you have to charge me with something and arrest me," I said.

"As a commanding officer of this vessel, I am authorized to use any means necessary to secure the safety of Starfleet personnel against any individual that may pose a threat," Kirk said. "And you are a threat, Miss Carpenter."

"You've elevated me to a terrorist threat, now?" I asked, irritation creeping back into my voice. My hold over my emotions was slipping now that I had no way of maintaining my meditative tricks.

"My hands were covered in second-degree burns after holding your arms for less than ten seconds!" he said.

"That's probably the worst pickup line I've ever heard," I drawled, but no one in the room appreciated my wit. "What did I burn you with? You didn't find any weapons on me. What was it? Magic?" My heart pounded and my voice cracked. Thank the stars that Spock was no longer in my head because he would call my bluff easily.

"Do you know how insane this sounds?" I continued. "How could an unarmed, 23-year-old, human girl possibly pose a threat to anyone here? If you'd only wait for someone to take a look at the engine, you'll find a perfectly reasonable explanation for why it failed. Not only that, but did I look like I was capable of sabotaging a game of solitaire, much less an engine?"

"Regardless, how do you explain your presence on this ship, your lack of citizenship, and your intimate knowledge of twentieth-century Earth?" Kirk asked, and waited. I didn't have an answer for him, and I was at my limit of control.

"Until you can," he continued, "you will be held under suspicion of terrorist activities which means you have no rights as a citizen of Earth or the United Federation of Planets."

"So you're just going to keep me tied to this bed?" I asked, turning on a 'helpless woman' vibe and hoping it appealed to a sense of chivalry. "Is some food, clothes, and rest really too much to ask?" It was my turn to wait as Kirk seemed to have an internal struggle.

"Mr. Spock," Kirk finally said, "please take a security escort and bring Miss Carpenter to the brig. Make sure she receives food and adequate clothing. Report to me in briefing room one when you're finished."

"Aye, Captain," Spock said, and Kirk turned on his heel to walk across sickbay and exit the sliding doors.

I sighed and slumped into the raised back of the bed. Tension drained out of me for all of two seconds before Spock turned to a speaker device on the wall and flipped a switch.

"Commander Spock to security. Please send a two-man escort to sickbay, along with clothing for a female human, 1.8034 meters tall, 72.5748 kilograms," he said into the speaker. The speaker chirped a man's acknowledgement, followed by a high-pitched whine of feedback, and Spock returned to my bedside. Looking at Dr. McCoy, who had remained thunderously observant during my exchange with Captain Kirk, Spock asked, "Is Miss Carpenter medically cleared to leave sickbay?"

McCoy huffed and said, "Give me ten minutes to find out. All my instruments are broken, so we're doing this the old-fashioned way." He walked away and disappeared through a door on the opposite end of sickbay.

There wasn't much to do in the minutes that followed. I closed my eyes and let my head fall back, but was reluctant to let my guard down while Spock was still standing guard over me. I opened my eyes and met his, which had been studying me.

_Spock,_ I thought, and his eyes widened almost imperceptibly. He didn't respond, but tilted his head to the side. He stepped closer and was about to place his hand on my face in the same pattern as before when Dr. McCoy returned with a black leather bag. Spock stepped away and clasped his hands behind his back.

Grumbling to himself, Dr. McCoy withdrew a stethoscope from the bag, along with a plastic case that held a needle and syringe, a tourniquet, iodine, and cotton swabs. He also withdrew a blood-pressure cuff, a rubber hammer, a small flash-light, several long cotton swabs, specimen tubes, and purple non-latex gloves. He pulled the gloves on his hands and arranged the equipment from the bag on a metal tray that stood next to the bed.

"Are you going to buy me a drink first?" I asked wryly

Dr. McCoy chuckled, his the left corner of his mouth pulling up in a grin. "Darlin', you got some sass," he said. "Open up."

What followed was a pretty standard physical, as much as he could do while I was strapped to the bed. He poked and prodded me, asked me to let him know if anything hurt, swabbed my cheek, and drew some blood. I flinched away from the needle, but Dr. McCoy threatened to have Spock hold me down if I didn't let him draw blood.

It's not that I'm afraid of needles; it's just that you can do some very nasty things to a person if you have some of their blood. It's just generally a good idea to not let it leave your body--and if it does, keep close tabs on it.

Finally, he declared, "Alright, Spock, she's good to go. Just don't let her strain herself. Her blood pressure is a little low. I still have to run tests on her blood samples so let security know I'll be stopping by later for a follow-up."

"A second date, Doctor? You're too good to me," I drawled, imitating his southern accent.

Spock nodded and beckoned to the two men in red shirts standing at attention at the foot of my bed. They had arrived during the physical. One man was short and Latino. He was well-muscled, lean, and tanned a golden brown. His black, shiny hair was styled into spiky points and black tribal tattoos framed his left eyebrow. He had smiled at me, flashing his white teeth, when he arrived. Guard number two had a huge nose, brown hair, and a dark goatee that stood out starkly against his very pale face. He was much taller than Guard number one and his prominent adams apple bobbed every time he swallowed.

As Dr. McCoy packed up his "old fashioned" equipment the guards approached with a stack of cloth I hoped was my change of clothes and some super fancy space handcuffs. Slowly, so I wouldn't startle anyone, I pulled my hands and feet out of the bed restraints and sat up. Spock's eyebrow rose because he knew that no one had flipped the switch that would release the straps securing me to the bed, but the red shirts didn't know that. Guard number one handed me the stack of clothes and lead me to a small bathroom I could use to change.

I quickly tossed the sad remains of my favorite summer dress on the floor and pulled on a rather ugly grey pair of pants and a shirt. The pants were too short and showed about two inches of ankle. The grey shirt was similarly too short for my long arms, and the shoulders were too tight, though the body and sleeves billowed around me. I slipped on a pair of black cloth loafers that were too big and rubbed against my heel as I walked.

I took advantage of my temporary privacy to use the toilet, splash some water on my face, and gulp down a few hand-fulls of water. There was a mirror above the small sink and a glance at my reflection had me wincing. I had dark purple bruises on the left side of my face. Someone had sucker-punched me on the nose and my eyes were raccoon'd. The remains of dried blood still clung to my upper lip, despite the rinse. I had a scab on my lower lip, and yellowing bruises on my neck. 

I quickly shut the gibbering, angry rage, that bubbled up upon seeing my abused features, behind a mental door and left the bathroom. Guard number one hand-cuffed my hands behind my back. Guard number two lead the way out of the medical facility, with Guard number one following me and Spock bringing up the rear. 

The sliding doors to the medical facility gave a nasty squeal as they tried to open for us--they didn't quite make it. Dazed, tired, and wishing I could just curl up and disappear, I was led on a short walk down a blindingly white and brightly-lit corridor. We passed many other closed sliding doors, labeled with numbers prefixed with a "G-".

Along the way, we passed humans and several beings that were unlike any human or fey I had ever encountered. Judging by blue or green skin tones, strange ridges on noses and foreheads, huge eyes, and/or extra appendages, I guessed that these beings were probably not found on earth. Unless there was some kind of nuclear disaster while I--

I cut myself off before I had the chance to think things that would bust my flimsy mental door down. 

Everyone we passed stepped aside and saluted Spock. Many were dressed in the red, blue, or gold uniforms I had seen before, but others were wearing varying styles of civilian clothing. We passed by so quickly that they had little chance to do more than glance at me, but I could see their eyes (when they had eyes) sweep over my face, bound hands, and escort.

The march ended in a large white room with shiny black flooring and black accents. Two control stations, sleek and curved, with red chairs, faced the opposite wall. Directly across from the entrance was a recessed chamber that was brightly lit by fluorescent lights. The large archway opened to a sparse, pod-like room with two benches on the right and left sides. The guards led me past this pod-room and down a corridor to the left, which had eight black doors evenly spaced on either side.

These doors seemed to be large, heavy, and of a more simple mechanical design. They did not slide open as we approached. Guard number two unlocked the door with a simple four-digit pass code, and then hauled on the door handle to slide the heavy slab open. Guard number one un-cuffed my hands and I was thrust into a very small room with a bench barely long enough lay down on, four walls, a ceiling, and a floor. The door closed behind me with a clang and the chunk-chunk of heavy deadbolt locks sliding into place. Spock may have said something about returning with more information, but I was in no condition to remember. I was barely keeping it together. 

_Focus_ , I told myself. _Task number one: figure out a way to avoid a major technical malfunction before you kill life-support or something. Then you can freak out all you want._

Right. Ok. I needed to create a magic circle around me. The nice thing about magic circles is that they're pretty easy to construct, take very little effort, and are extremely effective at keeping magic in... or out. You can use them in all sorts of ways: trapping small faeries; summoning demons and stronger fey creature; blocking out ambient magic when gathering power to cast a spell; and even protecting against a redcap out for my blood. That last one is another one of Molly's homicide attempts, but that's another story.

If I were to surround myself in a magic circle, I could be confident that my magic would be confined to the boundaries of that circle. Once released, it would dissipate, and probably not cause the oxygen tanks to spontaneously combust. I hoped. In any case, better to play it safe. 

Looking around the small cell, it at first seemed like there was nothing but the bench, air, and myself within the four walls. When I sat on the bench, I happened to curl my fingers around the lip and felt a latch that popped open a section of bench next to me. Lifting the lid, I found myself looking at what could only be the latrine, complete with a little toilet tissue dispenser built into the underside of the lid. I closed the compartment and decided to explore. 

There were two other hidden compartments that made up the remainder of the bench. One held pillows and blankets, which I pulled out and threw on the floor for use later. The other had what looked like a few MREs, a bottle of water, and a change of clothes. Unless I wanted to break open an MRE and spread barely edible food around like some kind of savage, I had very little material to work with for creating a circle. 

I took off a shoe and examined the sole. If I had any luck, they would be made of cheap rubber that would leave marks. I dug a fingernail into the spongey, black underside. It seemed promising. I put the heel of the shoe, the thickest part of the sole, to the bench and dragged it for six inches. It got a little streak of black near the end. A wave of relief so strong it was pathetic crashed over me and I nearly burst into tears. At least one thing was going the way I wanted. 

I spent about half an hour dragging my shoe in a circle on the floor. The rubber was stubborn and didn't want to be worn away, and it was difficult to arrange the streaks so that there were no breaks in the circle. When I finished, I touched a finger to the edge of the circle, closed my eyes, and sent a little nudge of Will to close it. There was a sensation of my ears popping, as if the cabin pressure sharply rose, and I let out a sigh. 

I half expected to break into tears, scream, rage, or do something violent, but I just sat there, leaning back against my heels with a pillow in my lap. I was exhausted, but my mind was racing in circles, trying to make sense of the past few hours. 

Everything could be an elaborate reuse, but I didn't think so. There were too many people involved, it was too elaborate, and I would have seen the intent to deceive when I soul gazed with Spock. I could be in a mental institution with a bunch of crazy people that thought they were on a space ship. But that wasn't right either. It was improbable that so many people would be under the same delusion, and, again, I would have seen a mental instability in Spock when we soul gazed. 

If I stopped fooling myself, I would have to admit that somehow, I woke up _in space_  and was, apparently, _in the future._ I was on board one giant piece of super-advanced technology, filled with lots of other super-advanced technology. Stars and Stones.... I was a walking time bomb. 

How did I get here? Why was I here? And, Hell's Bells, why was I always getting abducted? This had to be the third time! And the most annoying part was, the part that infuriated me, made me absolutely boiling, balls-kicking mad, was that it was never about me. I was never abducted because of my own merits. The first time I was abducted was to coerce Harry Dresden into losing a war, the second time I was abducted, it was to blackmail Molly into handing something from the Never Never over to the Fomor. 

A little absurdly, I kind of wished that I would get abducted because someone wanted to force me to enchant some kind of doomsday device, or convert me to their wicked cause, or sell my death on the internet.

Instead, I am reduced to a _plot point_  in _someone else's_ story. 

Well, whoever those motherfuckers were, they didn't seem to be around. 

No one was around. 

So, having exhausted my options for the moment, I set the pillow on the floor, careful not to let it cross the border and break the circle, curled myself into a tight little ball, and fell asleep on the cold, hard, metal floor of the prison cell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just a note to say that I probably won't stick to a regular update schedule. I have a very busy life, with quite a few commitments and other enjoyments. I will update as I can. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek or the Dresden Files series.


	3. Chapter 3

I opened my eyes when I heard the _chunk-chunk_ of the deadbolts on the cell door unlocking. It felt like I had just closed my eyes only moments ago, but a line of drool down my cheek and a stiff shoulder were evidence that I did, in fact, sleep. What a waste. Guard Number 1 hauled open the door while a new guard (number three, maybe? I should to look into a different naming system) stepped into my cell. I sat up and blinked at him.

"Stand up and put your hands on your head," he barked. He was tall, with blond, spiky hair, muscles, and human features. He carried one of those small laser guns and had it pointed at me. I did as he said and Thing 1 moved closer to cuff me. There was a buzz of energy as the lights overhead surged when he stepped into the circle and broke the barrier.

Thing 1 gave me a deeply suspicious look and roughly grabbed at my arms. He was wearing some kind of shiny gloves that irritated the rope burns I had gotten earlier. I wanted to grumble something smarmy and sassy, like people in books and movies do, but I was barely awake and just me, so I said, "Hey, watch it." He didn't respond, but abruptly marched me out of the cell door, with Thing 3 leading the way. I limped along, having forgotten to put my shoe back on after using it to draw the circle.

They brought me to the recessed chamber I had noticed before, on the way in. Thing 3 walked over to one of the sleek white control stations and Thing 1 pushed me over the lip of the pod so I was inside. A few of the fluorescent lights that were built into the archway died. I sat on the bench and waited while Thing 3 sat in the snazzy red chair and messed with the panel. After a minute, a loud hum filled the room and a shimmer flew through the air from one side of the archway to the other. A metal ring detached from the wall and hung suspended in the shimmer. I stared in awe.

Thing 1 gestured to me and said, "Step forward," I did. "Turn around," I did. He dragged the ring through the air to where I was standing and reached his arm through, unlocked the hand-cuffs, and pulled them back through the metal ring. I turned around again.

"What have I done to deserve such a fancy room upgrade?" I asked, kicking off my other shoe and contemplating how much time I'd have before the force field in front of me gave out. I wasn't entirely sure it was supposed to be flashing so many rainbow colors. The speed with which technology failed was usually directly related to how new and complex it was. Lights were an exception, because I guess they always have been. Long before there were light bulbs to blow out in a shower of sparks, there were oil lamps to gutter out, candles to flicker, and torches to snuff.

I hadn't expected an answer because Thing 3 was busy working at the computer terminal and Thing 1 continued to look at me as if I were _El Diablo_. I was just starting to wonder where Thing 2 had gotten to so I could start quoting Dr. Seuss to them when Thing 1 said, "Captain wants to question you."

_So I must be in the interrogation chamber. This should go well._ I thought. _I can't think of a single thing that could go wrong right now._

I didn't have to wait long before Kirk and Spock walked through the sliding doors. Kirk greeted the guards, calling them by their names: Rodriguez and Carson. Spock nodded at their salutes, but did not speak. Rodriguez exited from the doors I was marched through, looking relieved that he didn't have to be in the same room as me, even separated by the weird energy partition.

Kirk stopped before the energy partition, feet spread wide and hands on his hips. He radiated confidence, and I suspect this was his standard MO. Spock stood slightly behind Kirk and to his left with his hands clasped behind his back. I tried to catch his eye, but he avoided my gaze, looking at my forehead, like so many others have since I became a Wizard. I tried not to feel somewhat hurt by that because it was a ridiculous reaction.

"So, Miss Carpenter, I have been more than generous and cooperated with your demands," he emphasized demands, like I was a crazy bitch. "It's time for you to start cooperating."

I considered for a moment how helpless I felt: alone, far away from home, without the careful defenses I had built up over the years. If they were willing to listen and believe, instead of locking me up, what would happen? I was at this stranger's mercy and if he saw me as a threat, he could kill me. If things went that route, I could attempt to fight my way free, but to where? Out into the vacuum of space? And that was only if I didn't blow everyone up, including myself, in the process.

My only choices seemed to be: risk incarceration (in a mental institution or a prison), be killed, or die in a fiery explosion.

On the other hand, I was playing my cards pretty close to my chest. I had no problem at home letting the world know who and what I was--at least the friendly, PG version. I wasn't locked up. Heck, I even made a little spending money on the side, whether people believed me or not. I had to start showing a little trust, or I would get none in return.

To these people, I was an unknown, and the only thing more dangerous than the devil you know is the devil you don't. Maybe I should consider the fact that they didn't kill me outright as a sign that they really were willing to let me prove that I wasn't a real threat. Or at least an intentional threat.

"What is it you want to know, Mr. Kirk?" I asked and sighed heavily. I didn't move from my seat on the bench, but instead slumped against the wall.

"That's Captain Kirk to you," he snapped, but his professionalism returned quickly. "First, I'd like to know who you are. Since we can't identify you by your DNA, we need something to go off of. Birthday, parents, any identifying information you can think of."

I cleared my throat and tried to work some spit into my dry mouth before speaking.

"My name is Margaret Carpenter. I was born on November 23, 2003. I live in Chicago, Illinois. I don't know my biological parents, but I was adopted in 2010, by Michael and Charity Carpenter. I was born in Guatemala, but became a United States citizen when I was adopted."

Spock had pulled a tablet computer from behind his back and was tapping away swiftly on its surface. There was a faint line between his eyebrows.

Kirk didn't ask any more questions, and I assumed he was giving Spock time to do some digging with the information I had given him.

"The data is insufficient," Spock said. "Where did you go to school, Miss Carpenter?"

"You won't find anything that way," Kirk said. "School records are sealed. Nothing but a court order or the express written permission of the individual can release them."

"Weird," I said, at the same time Spock said, "Fascinating."

"Did you have a Job?" Kirk asked me, his left hand rising to scratch at this chin. I nodded.

"I worked with my father. We designed custom kitchen cabinets, mostly, but after I graduated High School, we moved into specialty furniture: gaming tables, bookshelves, cribs, rocking chairs, you name it. On the side, I made jewelry and sculptures and sold other little nick-knacks."

"So you're actually a carpenter?" Kirk asked. I quit staring at the trippy colors swirling through the energy barrier to look at Kirk. His left hand was covering his mouth, as if hiding a smile.

"Yeeaah," I drawled. "We're in the phone book -- were in the phone book," I said.

Kirk fell silent again, waiting for Spock find something. I went back to staring at the force field. I suspected it was made out of pure energy, which is something Wizards are keenly attuned to. We can sense and feel energy in a way most people can't. We can feel the static potential in an oncoming storm; the immense, coiling power in an active volcano or earthquake region. Sometimes, for powerful spells, we can tap into those natural stores of energy. What kind of energy the force field was made of?

Spock looked up again from the tablet and shook his head.

"It was probably a long shot to think there would be records of telephone numbers," Kirk mused.

"Miss Carpenter," Spock said, interrupting Kirk's thoughtful silence. "Are you able to recall the events that lead to your arrival on this ship?"

"What are you thinking, Spock?" Kirk asked.

"Due to the as yet undetermined nature of Miss Carpenter's arrival on this ship, and the discrepancy between her physical age and her reported age, there is a 86.495% chance that there may be records of a disturbance or anomaly regarding the time period of Miss Carpenter's latest recollections."

"You think she's a missing person? From 237 years ago?" Kirk translated.

"There is a distinct possibility," Spock said. "Additionally, there is a 24% to 65% chance that the same anomaly or disturbance is responsible for Miss Carpenter's presence on this ship."

"Well, Miss Carpenter?" Kirk prompted me. I glanced between the two of them.

"I don't know how useful this line of questioning will be. I don't remember much, and I seem to be missing a significant amount of time from my memory," I began, "The last thing I remember is..." I trailed off, searching for elusive, half-broken memories. I could feel their incompleteness, like someone had slashed a hasty hole out of the fabric of my mind. It was the work of a butcher, there was no care given to surrounding or connected memories. A black hole remained in a bleeding and savaged landscape. I would have nightmares for months.

"I remember I was getting ready, dressing up for a party... a big event. I talked to Molly, my sister, earlier. I was nervous about something, but... I can't remember what. It was hot and muggy out, and traffic from downtown was horrible, as usual... I don't know if I can remember anything else."

"Do you remember the day? The month? The year?" asked Kirk.

"2026, and it must have been summer because I was wearing my favorite blue summer dress. What was I working on at home? I had a crib going for a colicky baby, I had incense burners for the PTA, I had the Warden swords in two weeks, but we were waiting because... we had to wait for the Summer Solstice to pass! It was the night of the Summer Solstice!" take that, you hack-job, two-bit, sleazy, son of a frog-humping jackal.

Spock returned to the computer tablet, and within a minute had a result, but it didn't make me feel any better.

"On June 19, 2026, a Margaret Carpenter was reported missing. A brief news article mentions that she was not present at an art gallery show she was expected to attend. When her family was unable to contact her the following day, she was officially reported missing. On July 3, 2026, the case was closed. There remains only one record: on July 3, 2033, Margaret Carpenter was declared legally dead."

I gulped, or tried to -- I would trade a BJ for some water. In the end, I think I just kind of choked a little.

"The investigation was closed after only two weeks?" Kirk asked. "Why?"

"I would have to contact the appropriate archival institution in Illinois to retrieve records of the case," Spock answered.

Kirk nodded and said, "Find out." Spock turned briskly on his heel and walked over to the second computer terminal at the other end of the room, sitting down on the red chair and flying his fingers over the screen.

Kirk returned his gaze to me, but I was having trouble focusing at that point. The colors of the energy barrier were making some pretty interesting patterns, and I was sending little nudges of Will toward it to see if I could manipulate it.

"Okay, Margaret, can I call you Margaret?" Kirk asked, squatting down so he was a little lower than eye-level with me.

"You can if you want. My friends call me Peggy," I said, "or Peg."

"Ok, Peggy, I need you to understand something here. I'm in a bind because I would really like to help you out. You seem like a very intelligent young woman, and you've obviously had a rough time. I'm willing to accept that we may have to do some detective work to find out just what happened to you, but there are some things I can't overlook." I nodded, tearing my gaze away from the blue swirls that had just been introduced to the energy barrier. Kirk and Spock weren't really pulling a Good Cop/Bad Cop routine, so I guessed that Kirk was just changing his tactics to something a little less hostile, in which case I was willing to reward him.

"I've been the Captain of this ship for four years. We've been to planets no one in the Federation has visited before; I've seen things no human outside this ship could ever imagine. You need to believe me when I say that I certainly can handle the truth -– and I need it to protect the people on this ship.

"While you were asleep, we tracked the security feed outages, and it's pretty much a direct path from the cargo bay on deck I, through the Jeffries tubes, to where we found you in Main Engineering, on Deck O. We think you were headed to the Dilithium chamber, though you never would have been able to get in, or survived if you had.

"We took a look at the cargo bay on Deck I, and there was a damaged storage container that we are transporting to _Terok Nor_. No damage was ever reported when we transported the cargo on board, so we think you were in that storage container. Does that sound right?"

No. It didn't sound right. I can't remember a damn thing about the past 237 years, including the last few hours where I was apparently awake and acting on some kind of compulsion. Was it my own? Was it planted? Would I try to do something equally stupid next time I was unconscious or asleep? I sent another absent nudge of Will to the energy barrier and the damn thing went crazy.

Sparks flew in every direction, flying off the energy barrier in crazy and unpredictable whorls and patterns. The colors I had seen before all but vanished, replaced by a blinding white, yellow, and gold confusion of light.

I jumped, Kirk was blown on his ass, and an alarm sounded from Thing 3's terminal.

"Captain, there was an energy surge in the force field –"

_Chirp Chirp_ "Captain! What the hell is goin' on up there? Are ye holding the God Damned Kraken prisoner?"

Kirk jumped up and flipped a switch on the wall next to my pod.

"Lieutenant Scott, report," Kirk spat out.

"I'll tell ye what happened! The brig just about caused an engine failure with that little spike. The ship cannae handle warp five and contain whatever creature ye've got locked up there," Scotty blared through the speaker.

"Are we stable?" Kirk asked.

"Not likely!" came Scotty's reply, followed by a familiar blaring alarm and flashing red lights. Kirk shot me a look of pure frustration and practically punched the speaker.

"Captain to the Bridge."

"Bridge to Captain, Ensign Chekov here, Sir."

"Drop to warp two, maintain trajectory."

"Yes, Sir!"

"Scotty, how does it look now?"

"Better, Captain, but not fer long. The brig is up to thirteen percent energy draw, and rising."

"Shit. Ensign Carson, manually override the force field, drop power to fifty percent."

Carson was already frantically jabbing away at the computer terminal. After about ten seconds, he said, "I can't, Captain!"

Spock, far enough away that he would have to shout, rose from his terminal at the back of the room and ran to Carson's station to take over. Carson jumped back, relief and anxiety marring his features.

Kirk turned to me, staring at me hard through the pulsating barrier.

"Fix it," he spat.

I had sat there, watching the chaos erupt and tension skyrocket in the short span of thirty seconds. The energy barrier continued to chaotically swirl, growing brighter and more furious with each passing second.

I turned helpless eyes on Kirk.

"I don't know what I did," I said.

"Captain, in 52 seconds, we will need to drop out of warp to prevent engine overload," Spock said from his new position. His voice rose to be heard over the cacophony of alarms; he even looked a little worried. I could almost see some faint lines on his forehead.

"You did something," Kirk said. "Undo it! Do you know what engine failure means? I means we're sitting ducks on the edge of Cardassian territory. It means life support has only backup power. It means we're stranded six months away from anyone that's capable of helping us out because we don't have another Dilithium crystal," Kirk said. He didn't shout, but he spoke with an intensity that fit him so naturally, it was like a second skin. I didn't need to know what Cardassians and Dilithium crystals were to know that everything Kirk was saying sounded like a bad time.

"Thirty seconds, Captain," Spock warned.

"Give the order when you need to, Mr. Spock," the Captain returned, never breaking his gaze on me.

I was frozen. I was terrified. The alarm wasn't helping, my emotions were probably complicating everything. I couldn't get the thought out of my head _you'll be exposed, they'll lock you up, they'll burn you._

It was crazy because I would never have worried too much about that before. People make up shit all the time to make sense of what they've witnessed, and about four times out of five they'll deny it even happened the next day. I never would have withheld my powers if it meant saving a life back home (not that I've ever had to). So why was I frozen when it meant saving a whole ship full of people, including myself.

"Peggy!" Kirk shouted at me.

In movies and books, people miraculously snap out of their funk in the nick of time to save the day. I guess they're lucky because I didn't so much as snap out of mine as slog through it. I can't describe the incredible feeling of fear and reluctance that nearly overpowered me, as if I was about to stick my hand in a pot of sewage. I had upset the damn thing by sending negative emotions at it in the first place, but there was no hope of me sending feel-good emotions at it in my state.

My heart raced as I stood up. My body felt heavy as I stood before the energy barrier and I realized I had no idea what to do. Shut it down? How?

I placed a shaking hand on the barrier and a bass thrum vibrated every hair on my body as waves of energy flew off it. I heard Spock give the order to drop out of warp.

Drawing power off of it might only cause it to pull more power from the engines, which were already stressed as it was. That seemed logical. Right. But what if I reversed the flow of energy? Would I cause a backlash? Would I just overload the technology? What if I disrupted the flow of energy?

I pushed on the barrier with my hand, and another sonic wave rolled off. Pushing harder, I brought my Will to the pressure I was forcing on the barrier. I focused that will to a needle-point, and tried to form my frantic breath into a rhythm. It didn't need to be slow, just steady. After about twenty seconds, I was ready.

I brought my hand back and hit the energy barrier. It was strange: like punching a wall made of those foam stress balls, but it cracked like glass under my knuckles. I punched again, and again, and again. On the fifth punch, the energy field shattered and blew me backwards.

I landed on the bench against the back wall. My tail bone made intimate contact with the edge of the bench, my head bounced off the wall, and I slid to the floor in a heap of pain and dizziness. I saw stars and blinked them away to complete darkness. The blaring alarm had cut off, the red lights had gone out, and the soft whirring of electronics were slowly getting softer as they all slowed down from an abrupt loss of power.

Had I just killed us all?

The lights outside the pod blinked back on, immediately sending a stab of pain through my eyes. Computers powered on with little beeps and whirrs. The alarm and red lights blared for about three seconds before they cut out. My pod remained dark and quiet.

"Status report, Spock," I heard Kirk say, his voice sounding tinny and far away, and muffled under a high-pitched whine.

"The engine is functioning normally, Captain. Energy draw from the brig is at point four nine percent. That's point two five percent lower than average. The interrogation chamber is without power," Spock's soft and clipped voice recited figures calmly, betraying no hint of anxiety or stress of the past few minutes.

Kirk walked into the pod and knelt at my side, where I had fallen off the bench. Turning me on my back, he shook my shoulder.

"Peggy, are you alright? How many fingers am I holding up?" He asked.

"Not any, Jerk," I slurred, pushing his hands off me. I used his arm and the bench next to me to lever myself up. While extremely wobbly, I could still sit without falling into Kirk's lap.

Distantly, I could hear Spock and Carson answering a barrage of chirps, likely the whole ship wanting to know what in the seven hells happened.

"That did not work like I thought it would," I grumbled, raising a hand to feel the lump growing on the back of my head. I wasn't bleeding, so at least I had that going for me.

"How was that supposed to work?" Kirk asked carefully, but I didn't notice his trap. Can you blame me?

"Well I was a little ham-handed with it, blame lack of time and preparation, but I assumed it was like any other immovable barrier and that a good puncture would make it collapse on itself. That's the problem with building a shield like a brick wall, it doesn't hold up to focused attacks well. Not that I'm all that great at offense, mind you, but I did pretty well at shield theory… but I should have realized that I wasn't dealing with any kind of shield I've ever encountered before. The Merlin himself couldn't have dreamed that up."

"Merlin?" Kirk echoed.

Shit, I thought. Well Hell's Bells, I had already decided to let them have it.

"Yeah. Merlin. As in the old guy in robes and a pointy hat. As in Magic," I said. Kirk looked at me with a slight quirk to his lips and a slight frown to his brow. Restrained as it was, I could decipher that look of patronizing uncertainty on a frog.

"How hard did you hit your head, Peggy?" Kirk asked, grabbing my chin, turning my face to look into my eyes. They locked before I knew what was happening, and the soul gaze was almost instantaneous.

I felt almost scandalous, soul gazing with two people in less than twenty-four hours.

Kirk was so different from Spock. Where Spock was a glacier, Kirk was a Typhoon. Kirk was certainly a leader, but he never thought of himself as a soldier, or a warrior. He still thought of himself as that blackout drunk flying around by the seat of his pants. Sure, he knew he was smart, but he never had to work at it, so he constantly felt like an imposter. In many cases, he overcompensated with bravado and risky behavior.

But he was undoubtedly smart, and dedicated—dedicated to his goals, his team, his friends. He was going to get what he wanted and he was going to do it by any means necessary (almost). It was a bright and noisy place inside Captain James Tiberius Kirk. Except for a tiny, dark place. I almost didn't notice it. He kept it in the farthest recesses of his thoughts, so far I couldn't make out anything. But I knew that small dark stain on Kirk's soul held a story of his past, something he would give anything to undo, something he wanted desperately to forget, but strove to remember.

So we at least had one thing in common.

The soul gaze ended, but Kirk continued to glare into my eyes, as if he were trying to start one again.

"Captain," Spock's voice interrupted us, and Kirk dragged his eyes from mine to give his attention to Spock.

"What is it, Mr. Spock?" he asked.

"I have received a reply to my inquiry to the Chicago Law Enforcement Archives," Spock reported.

"Did you find anything useful?" Kirk asked.

"While what I have found is… fascinating, I am uncertain if it is useful," Spock replied and quickly continued when Kirk gestured for more. "While there was very little information in the file, and no indication of why the investigation was ended so quickly, there was a record of the file being accessed two months ago."

"By whom?" Kirk demanded.

I tensed up. If I was missing for 237 years, and presumed dead, why would someone randomly access my missing persons file?

"I was unable to obtain that information, as it was classified at a clearance higher than my own," Spock sounded almost put-out. Or maybe I was imagining emotions on his blank, blank face. "However, the individual who accessed the file made an addition, and I believe it was meant for Miss Carpenter to read."

My heart stopped. Started. Stopped. Started.

"What did it say?" I asked, breathless.

Spock recited, "Maggie, It's Harry. Tell Jabba I've got his money. Contact me when you get this message."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning that there's a quick mention of psychological trauma. When you get to the paragraph where Peggy starts talking about Matthew, there's a bit at the end there.

Have you ever felt like you were lost? I don't mean the turned-around, oh-crap-I-missed-my-exit feeling you might get driving to a new place. Because no matter how turned-around you might get, you know you always have a backup to rely on. Maybe you have a map in the back of your car, or a GPS app on your phone. You know that you can get off the highway at the next exit and find the opposite on-ramp or pull over at a gas station and ask for directions. The road has rules, and you know them. You have a solid grasp of them enough to figure out a solution. You aren't really ever lost.

The kind of lost feeling I'm talking about is like that panicked feeling you may get in dreams, when you're trapped in an endless cycle of running through corridors and doorways, trying to get to a goal that seems far away. I get them all the time. I'm late, or I have to do something important, or I'm running from someone or something; but I'm trapped so far away and the landscape keeps changing, and the people I run into aren't helpful, and I'm so utterly confused and frustrated that it feels like I'll never get to where I need to be. The rules I know aren't valid, the world pulls tricks on me, and I can't even trust myself.

Hearing Harry's coded message felt like the fog had cleared, just a little, and I was starting to wake up.

I felt dizzy with relief. If Harry was alive, after all these years, Molly might be, too. And even if she wasn't, then Harry would help me. I buried my head in my hands and tried to take deep, steadying breaths.

When I was certain I wouldn't fall into Kirk's lap, I lifted my head to find Kirk and Spock studying me in silence.

"I don't suppose I need to tell you how very suspicious that sounded," Kirk said quietly, dangerously.

I blinked and did one of those foolish-looking double-takes. Kirk was studying me with his usual intensity, and Spock with his usual passivity, but I could sense a change in the atmosphere. There was a dangerous edge to their gazes, and the sweet relief I had held briefly as mine fled.

"Um... I don't... What?" I stuttered.

"Why don't you start by telling us who Harry and Jabba are," Kirk deadpanned.

Heart racing and face flushing an uncomfortable shade of scarlet, I said, "Jabba... the Hut? From _Star Wars_?" blank looks, "He's from a movie. That was a line from _A New Hope_. Han Solo runs into one of Jabba's knee-breakers looking for Jabba's money. It's right before the famous scene where Han shoots first."

Kirk glanced to Spock, who was searching for information on his tablet with quick, efficient swipes of his long fingers. Spock, with eyebrows in their neutral slanted state, said, "A science fiction cinematic feature produced in 1977, and re-released with upgraded cinematic features as late as 2050. Jabba the Hut is a minor antagonist."

"You guys don't know _Star Wars_?" I asked, breathlessly.

"What does that message mean, Peggy?" Kirk pressed.

I sighed, annoyed over the rollercoaster of emotions I was riding. "It means I need to contact Harry Dresden," I said. "He was mentor to my mentor, Molly Carpenter. In our line of work, it's not uncommon for someone to pretend to be someone they're not, so we have safeguards like pass-phrases. Harry liked to quote from _Star Wars_ to prove that he was who he said he was."

"Your line of work, which is... carpentry?" Kirk asked skeptically.

"No, I just told you," I said, "Magic."

Spock ticked his head to the side and almost looked concerned as he said, "Miss Carpenter, perhaps you have underestimated the force with which you were thrown against--"

I snapped my head up and caught his eyes. Before he could shift his gaze, I thought, furiously, _I don't give a damn whether you believe me or not, but don't you_ dare _speak to me with condescension. I am quite sane, thank you very much, and a little tumble is not enough to scatter my brains._

"Spock?" Kirk asked, after it seemed like Spock cut off mid-sentence to nothing.

Instead of replying telepathically, since I didn’t think Spock could without his hand on my face (and isn’t that interesting?), Spock opened his mouth to speak, but I cut him off.

"Look, I really think you'll get the answers you need if you just let me contact Harry. He's obviously been looking for me," I urged.

From the way Kirk and Spock looked at each other, it was obvious that they had a long history of working very well and seamlessly together. I've seen the same kind of wordless conversations between Michael and Charity, Harry and Molly, Luccio and Morgan, but how Kirk and Spock pulled it off without Spock twitching a single facial muscle was beyond me.

"Whatever," Kirk said, finally, grudgingly, "If you think he's going to help in this investigation, then I'm willing to let you try. First, however, you need to figure out how to keep from blowing up this ship."

"Well if I hang out here, we at least know I've already blown up everything I can," I offered with a shrug.

"That would be extremely unwise, Captain, and against protocol. In the event of encountering a hostile presence we would have no means of containment," Spock said.

"He's right. It's not really a safe option and it leaves us with a vulnerability close to hostile territory. I'm confining you to the holding cell you were in before while the repairs are underway. Doctor McCoy will stop by to offer his assistance," Kirk said. He stood, pulling my hand and assisting me. A deep pain radiated from my tailbone and I flinched as I rose, feeling the hot, swelling ache of my battered body.

"Wait," I said, straightening. Kirk, who was signaling to Carson, raised an eyebrow at me. "I think I might be able to control it."

"You think?" Kirk asked.

"Maybe," I said, hedged. "It's not actually ever been done... to my knowledge. I don't know if it's safe to do."

"Please elaborate, Miss Carpenter," Spock said. He reminded me of the Wizard who had tested me when I applied to the White Council. An arrogant prick who seemed bored with life and took his only pleasure in intimidating young, new Wizards. I didn't get the same vibe from Spock, but the similarities in behavior were still there.

"So, Magical Interference is a natural side-effect of nurturing Magical talent," I explained. "It's partially tied to emotions, partially to the strength of a Wizard, and partially to the non-magical world. Some people say it has to do with the conflict within the Wizard, between our thoughts and emotions and that's why Magical Interference worsens when we're feeling strong emotion. Some people think it's a result of the conflict between Science and Magic, since Magical interference only affects technology, and it worsens as the divide expands. No one really knows for sure. Most people agree that it's an outlet for a Wizard's Magic."

"And you can think of a way to contain that... interference?" Kirk asked.

"Well... I have a few ideas, but I need some materials," I said.

"What for?" Kirk asked.

"Because I can't snap my fingers or wiggle my nose and have stuff happen. Magic doesn't work like that for me. I need time and materials," I huffed.

"What kind of materials?" Kirk asked as Carson and Rodriguez approached, holding the cuffs.

I thought for a moment. "Um... pen and paper, chalk, candles, matches, rock salt, pliers, wire -- solid if you can, but braided works fine as long as the filaments aren't too delicate--, any spare jewelry you can lay hands on: rings, necklaces, bracelets, earrings, semiprecious stones, or anything that can act as a prism, and," I hesitated, struggling to swallow nausea down my dry throat, "... water and maybe a sandwich?"

I held out my hands and Carson clasped the cuffs around my wrists again, drawing them behind my back. Kirk nodded and said, "I'll see what I can do."

And with that, I was hustled by the two red-shirts out of the pod room and down the short hallway. They brought me back to the small room and closed the door behind me, leaving me with my hands cuffed behind my back. I huffed in annoyance and muttered, “Hexen.”

I felt two little snaps in the cuffs before whatever mechanism was holding them in place failed, causing them to fall to the floor. Kicking them to the side, I limped over to the bench and picked up the bottled water I had forgotten about. Chugging the water in great gulps, I haltingly lowered myself to the center of my make-shift circle and hissed when my sore backside hit the cold floor.

I was a prisoner again, but I had more now than I did when I woke up. I had hope and I had a plan. Step one: figure out how to suppress the ambient magical interference that all practitioners give off. Step two: contact Harry. Step three: figure things out.

While step three was frustratingly vague, simply due to the sheer scope of missing information, I was fairly confident that I could accomplish step one and construct some type of magical instrument that I could use to either suppress or re-direct the natural magic that screws up technology.

This is my jam, people.

Enchanting is somewhat like potion brewing in that the five components of spellcraft are usually necessary to give a normally non-magical item magical properties. With potions, you need a base and components for air, earth, water, fire, and spirit. Mix it all together and poof!

Enchanting an object is similar. You need an object to enchant and one to five spellcraft components that relate in some way to what magical properties you want the object to take on. However, the biggest part of the spellwork is the wizard herself. The Will of the wizard is the strong force that binds magic to the object. Then, there are a few factors that determine the number of spellcraft components the spell would require. For example, the more suited an object is to take on the magical properties you want, the easier it will be to do so.

A goblet that refills itself? Easy as pie, since a goblet is made to hold liquid. I would probably only need one or two spellcraft components for this, but a wizard with less talent for enchantment would probably need three or four.

A goblet that spits fire? Nearly impossible, since water and fire are two opposing forces. I might be able to pull it off with five spellcraft components and fourteen uninterrupted hours of concentration. But what’s the point? I could easily make a fire-spitting wooden wand with less time and effort.

A magical focus item that suppresses and absorbs natural magic given off by a wizard? To be on the safe side, I would probably use five components. I had an idea for some kind of necklace with a semiprecious jewel. This would allow it to be on me at all times. The chain around my neck would bind and the jewel would absorb and store the ambient magic.

It would be a handy resource if I ever needed any extra boost to a spell, and I was wary of suppressing magic totally. There was no telling if, without technology to screw up, the magic wouldn’t regress and return to screwing with my body by giving me hideous birthmarks, or warts, or green skin.

After a few hours of waiting around, I was thirsty again and the MREs were beginning to look appetizing. Sitting on the floor was excruciating and getting more painful by the second, even with the pillow firmly under my bruised backside. Even a few yoga poses didn’t help. I was weighing the pros and cons of breaking the circle to go bang on the door when the sound of deadbolts retracting echoed through the room.

Dr. McCoy entered, carrying a tray and with a small satchel slung across his chest. The door closed behind him with the accompanying sounds of lockdown. He looked at my position on the floor, in a scrunched up plow pose, handcuffs and one shoe tucked in the far corner of the room and ticked an eyebrow.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked, standing in the doorway with an expression on his face that I had only ever seen on my brother Harry when he walked in on me that one time I… you know what, you don’t need to know that. He was perplexed.

“I’m kicking ass and taking names,” I said, bracing my back and wincing as I lowered my ass and swung my feet from above my head back to the floor. McCoy stepped forward, breaking the circle, and the lights overhead gave a serious flicker, accompanied by the humming of overpowered electronics. He paused, one foot in and one foot out.

“Get in the circle, idiot!” I snapped. He complied, but I could tell it was only because he was so startled by the violent reaction of the lights overhead that my order caught him by surprise. Once his foot was in, I quickly touched a finger to the circle and, with a nudge of will, closed the barrier. The lights stopped flickering, and all but one remained on. Score.

McCoy looked from the lights to me with wide eyes. He was standing close, the circle too small to stand a comfortable distance apart. I sat up and craned my neck back to look into his face and saw his eyes trained on my forehead.

“So it’s true,” he muttered quietly. I didn’t say anything, mostly because I thought it would add an air of Wizardly mystery, but partly because I didn’t want to startle the man again.

He crossed his legs and sat down in front of me, sliding the tray onto my lap and tucking the satchel into his. He was careful to not let anything break the barrier again. The tray had a plate of green, orange, and red colored cubes of… stuff. There was a glass of blue liquid and a small dish with some pills. I frowned.

“You’re really a witch?” he asked, sounding half incredulous and half excited.

“Yes, that’s old news,” I answered impatiently, feeling my stomach clench painfully. “What’s this?”

The doctor shook his head and resumed a bit of his professional demeanor. “That’s a nutrient-dense meal I had the replicators synthesize for you. You also have vitamin water and some antibiotics.”

“So let me get this straight,” I said. “You don’t have _Star Wars_ and you don’t have _Sandwiches_?” Swearing under my breath, I poked at a red cube. It was wet and squishy.

“You can have a damn sandwich once you’re not so malnourished you could have been a Tarsus IV survivor,” he growled. “Now eat. I have vaccines for you and something to help with your back.” He patted his satchel.

“What are the antibiotics for?” I asked, picking up an orange cube and putting it in my mouth. It was mildly salty, tasting like starchy carrots, and had the texture of wet couch cushion. I grimaced and drank some blue water. It tasted like seltzer.

“When I ran your bloodwork, I noticed you were missing antibodies for a most of the illnesses cadets get vaccinated for before going into space. Stuff like Andorian shingles, Cartalian fever, Levodian flu. The antibiotics are just a precaution to make sure you haven’t somehow contracted the most common diseases while the vaccines will take care of the whole spectrum of illnesses long-term,” McCoy explained. I nodded and tried a green cube. It was kind of tart, but also had hints of cheese, like a limey cheddar flavor, and also felt like wet couch cushion.

“I also should tell you that your blood had higher than average levels of calcium, iron, and carbonate. So high, in fact, that I’m almost certain the symptoms you were exhibiting in sickbay were caused by this. Headache, stomach pain, nausea, confusion, irregular heartbeat...." McCoy trailed off, and I said nothing. What could I say?

The red cube tasted like ground beef and pepper, and was probably the most pleasant-tasting of the lot, but unfortunately shared the atrocious texture of the other two colors.

"I can't for the life of me think of what could cause such a severe case of malnourishment, but leave you at a healthy weight and with severe cases of calcium, iron, and carbonate poisoning," McCoy continued. I glanced up at him and popped another red cube in my mouth.

"You and me both, man," I said, chewing around the sorry morsel.

"Jim said you can't remember how you ended up on this ship," McCoy said. "That true?"

I shrugged and drank some blue water. "I remember putting on a blue dress and white heels. And I was putting some finishing touches on my sculpture of St. Mary's cathedral, but that's hazy..." Hazy like I can’t remember where I was. I remember the flame, the shimmering drips of soldered iron, the rainbow patterns cast on the concrete floor by light shining through tiny stained glass windows. I remember pieces of the familiar ritual of dressing, putting on makeup, arming myself in pretty protections. I don’t remember which happened first, what happened in between, or what happened after.

I reached for another cube, but McCoy's hand grabbed my own and held it, his thumb softly stroking the back. "Peggy," my name sounded awkward coming from his mouth, "we don't know each other, and I can't imagine what this must be like for you." He paused, as if struggling to search for the right words. "I just want you to know that… I'd like to help in any way I can."

I looked up in surprise at the earnest crinkle of the doctor's eyebrows and the wry half-smile on his lips. My eyes stung and I looked down again to hide my tears.

"Why would you say that?" I breathed, and my hand shook.

"Call me old-fashioned, but I can't stand to see a lady in distress," he drawled. I snorted and tried to pull my hand away, but he held it firmly. I looked up again and trained my eyes on his forehead. As much as I would have liked to look in his eyes, I didn't think I could handle another soul gaze.

The doctor looked about Matthew's age, my favorite older brother. Out of all of my adopted siblings, Matthew visited home the most. He was the most like our father: kind, strong-willed, calm, and patient. That summer, when I was first brought to the Carpenter's house. Matthew sat with me and read to me as I recovered from… from what happened. He helped me learn English and didn't treat me like a china doll. He rubbed my back when I cried and made me grilled cheese sandwiches when I missed dinner because I couldn't get out of bed without screaming.

I'll forever be grateful to Michael and Charity for taking me in and raising me, but Michael was very busy and couldn't be home all the time; and Charity struggled to care for a severely traumatized child. Matthew was the one who stepped up and was the first to really make me feel like family.

Of course, I doubted it was brotherly affection that tendered Dr. McCoy's gaze. I blushed.

"Everyone needs someone to lean on," McCoy said softly. "Jim and Spock are good men, but it's their job to keep this ship and crew safe, so they've been hard on you."

"Is it your job to be nice to me?" I asked.

"It's my job to make sure you're healthy," he said. "I could leave it at that and let you be, but I know what it's like to have your world turned upside down--you'll find that most people on this ship do. I just happen to be in a position to offer you comfort, if you want it."

He gave my hand another squeeze and let it go. I nodded, stiffly, and resumed eating.

We sat in silence as I ate, and when I couldn't eat any more Dr. McCoy made me drink the rest of the water as I swallowed down the pills.

When I was finished, Dr. McCoy had me turn so my right shoulder was facing him, and he finally opened the flap of his satchel and drew out a small plastic container with five syringes nestled inside.

"These are the vaccines I told you about," he said, as he rolled up the sleeve of my ill-fitting, grey shirt. "They're easier and less painful to administer as a hypospray, but hypodermic needles work fine, too."

He pulled out a little packet that he ripped open to reveal an alcohol wet wipe. He swabbed my shoulder with it for thirty seconds before tossing it onto the abandoned tray of food.

"It's actually a funny story that we even have these," he said, and popped open the case of syringes. "Jim's allergic to about everything in the galaxy, but one day he comes back from a trip to this little planet, I forget the name. No civilized life, but the federation has it down that there could be veins of dilithium and they want our science team to check it out." So quickly, I barely even noticed, he stuck me with the first needle, depressed the plunger, and pulled out.

"Two weeks go by and we find not a lick of evidence that the planet has dilithium deposits, but Jim's so bored by day three that he's taken to joining the science team planet-side and wandering around.

"He's driving the security team nuts because if something happens to the captain, we're all in some pretty serious trouble, but trouble never stopped Jim. So he takes someone from the science team with him and calls it 'canvassing'.

"Well, on the last day of the survey, Jim manages to wander himself into some kind of quicksand pit. The poor kid with him runs back for help, and by the time security can get to him he's sunk up to his chest. By the time they figure out how to extract him, he's got all but the top of his nose and one arm sticking out of the muck.

"When they _finally_ get him out, Jim's a mess, but the _best part_ ," McCoy apparently still can't contain his glee over the incident, even though he seemed pretty practiced at retelling this particular story. "The best part is that all of Jim that sunk in that pit comes out a bright purple! And I'm talking everything. The first place they brought him was back to sickbay and you should have heard that man cry over his purple… _e-hem_ , unmentionables." As McCoy told the story, he administered the remaining vaccines and quickly stuck a bandage over a few spots that bled.

"There," he said, interrupting his story. He returned the syringes to his satchel and pulled out a tube of some kind of topical cream.

"This is for your back," he explained. "Jim filled me in on what happened in the interrogation chamber and said you were thrown against the wall pretty hard. It should ease any swelling and help with pain."

I nodded, but didn't take the tube from him.

"I'm pretty stiff," I said instead, "will you help me with that?"

"Sure thing," he said, nodding, and I shuffled around so my back was to him. He pulled up the back of my shirt and bunched it behind my neck, resting a hand on my shoulder and hooking is thumb under the fabric.

"So anyway," he continued, "Jim's moaning over his purple people eater and I thank whatever god wants to listen that he's so distracted; because normally I have to fight the man to take a hypo."

I heard McCoy pop the cap of the tube and seconds later the cool cream was being spread over my lower back, followed by the sensation of warm fingers gently kneading the cream into my skin.

"I catch him by surprise and give him something to detox, and hopefully get rid of the purple stain, but instead the nastiest rash you can imagine breaks out at the site of the hypo. We thought it was just because of an adverse reaction with his pretty purple skin, but the same thing happened three weeks later, skin back to normal, when I dragged him down for a follow-up.

"So for a while we thought it was a new kind of allergy, so I stocked up on hypodermic needles and syringes, but it turns out that the arm that wasn't stained purple can handle a hypo just fine.

“I tried at least a dozen times to get Jim down to sickbay to try and fix the issue, but he insists he never has time and why bother when we have a, quote, ‘perfectly fine fix.’ But, really, it’s because he knows I can’t sneak up behind him to give him a hypo anymore without giving him that rash.”

The cream felt like it was doing its job, as the sharp pain in my back eased and the ache dissipated under a delicious warm sensation. I felt the doctor lower the back of my shirt and close the cap of the tube. I sighed in relief and turned back around.

“Well, here,” the doctor said, gruff once again now that his story was finished. He offered me the tube of cream and I took it. “You can put more on every six or seven hours, but if you feel like you need to more often, then let me know.” I nodded.

There was a moment of awkward silence as the doctor needlessly re-arranged stuff in his satchel and I tried to gather the courage to ask my questions. I had been prepared for the brusque professionalism he had shown me in sick bay, and that I had gotten from Spock and Kirk, but McCoy’s kindness had caught me by surprise and I found myself inexplicably bashful.

But if I wanted answers I would have to speak soon, since McCoy was getting to his feet. “Spock will probably be by some time with that list of stuff you requested, so –“

“Actually, um,” I interrupted, “I have more things to add to that list.”

“Ok,” McCoy said, “I can pass it along. What are they?”

“I need a small folding paper fan, hemp rope – or some other kind of rope made of plant-based material--, oil – but not petroleum-based oil --, a cup or a vase or a goblet or something you drink out of, and a man’s necktie.” As I ticked off the items on my fingers, McCoy’s eyebrow ticked higher.

“That’s an… eclectic list. Is that for a… you know… a spell?” He ground out the word spell as if he was offended about the idea of believing it.

“Yes,” I said, and ploughed on. “Before, when you came in, you asked if I was a witch,” I began, trying to forget the intensity of McCoy’s gaze. “Why?”

“Signs were there,” he answered with a shrug, “and Jim said you claimed to practice magic. Didn’t know if I believed it until I came here.”

“You knew not to look into my eyes. How did you know that, though?” I asked.

“Grew up in the south. Lots of folk are real superstitious down there. Witches may have died out a hundred years ago, but the stories they left don’t vanish as easily,” he said.

“What do you mean, died out?” I asked, my heart pounding. McCoy looked uncomfortable.

“Died out, vanished, went underground… I don’t know much about it. Just that the stories say they’re gone. Anyone with real talent is gone and all that’s left are stage performers and charlatans,” he said.

“Do any of those stories mention how contact one?” I asked quickly.

McCoy heaved a large sigh, crossed his arms and shifted his weight to his other foot. “I dunno, maybe with a circle? A true name? My grandma only told me bedtime stories until I was ten, and before you ask, no, she ain’t alive.”

I deflated. Circles and true names were for fey, and, sure, they worked on Wizards to a degree, but a non-practitioner couldn’t just call out a Wizard’s true name and expect the Wizard to hear her. Besides, I wasn’t even on the same planet as Harry. There’s no way any spell I could think up would reach him. What I was really fishing for was a name, someone on the paranet, a warden, a practicing wizard. Someone who could get me in touch with Harry or the white council.

“Thank you, Dr. McCoy,” I said.

“My pleasure, Darlin’,” he said, with a wink, and I gave him a weak smile.

When McCoy stepped out of the circle this time, I was quick to bring the barrier back up, so the lights didn’t even flutter. He knocked on the door and the guards let him out, leaving me alone with my questions and worries.

What had happened that night of the Summer Solstice? How did I wind up on a spaceship, of all places?

Why were there stories of practitioners and wizards disappearing?

How would I contact Harry? But, more importantly, how would I get home and what would I find there?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gave me a hard time, but the real reason it's so late is because I was distracted by several other fandoms, including Thor, Teen Wolf, and Supernatrual. :)  
> Please enjoy, and leave feedback!


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